Jackson

Socks, after KonMari, sushi-rolled and set in lines. I am a little girl again, singing a pattern, stripes and blacks. Like so many backs. Moslems crouched in a crowded mosque. Buddhists prostrated before a statue. Yogis curled in child’s pose. I am seventeen again. Bono raises the white flag. On a Sunday, Bloody Sunday. This… Read more

I want to live on the streets like he did begging from village to village with my poems. / A man could do that and retain his dignity. / A man could do that. / A woman has more sense than to do that. Read more

I wore a red bra … // We talked about a poem whose … // And I thought of how many reds /      I seem to need /      to counter the grayscale of things, Read more

I dream a dog, / large, yellow, short-chained / to the rear wall of my house, / in sun, rain, / starlight, lunging / and snarling. Its man comes / and goes. I can stand the days, / … Read more

I ate scrambled egg / out of your letterbox / In the dream your house / was across the street / from mine // Mine had a leaking roof / a falling-down pergola / … Read more

reading the poems of women born the same year as my mother unaccountably      a homespun hat      a handloomed cloth      she’ll leave me      paintings of cats      with flowers      she’ll leave me      a blanket-stitched potholder      a gingham apron unaccountably I fold into tears First published in Writ Poetry Review 4, May 2020 Read more